


Boys Will Be Boys

by Citrine (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A slightly dark look at childhood, F/M, Het non-con with teenage Mycroft as the instigator, Incestuous feelings, M/M, bladder desperation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Citrine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Sherlock is playing hold-it games, while Mycroft grapples with the nature of power and desire:</p>
<p>Now darkness is finally closing in around the mullion windows and this is the time of day Mycroft likes best. The gardens are all shadows and silhouettes and they’re alone, just him and Sherlock. And the au- pair of course, but Anna’s insignificant, a nothing, a nobody.  Nevertheless, a promise is a promise, even when it’s only made to get what one wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boys Will Be Boys

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually write stories about the characters as children, but the Holmes brothers do fascinate me.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: Don't own, no profit made.

Mycroft watches his brother from the doorway. A few minutes ago Sherlock was doing a frantic have-to-pee dance around the sitting room. Now he’s kneeling on the sofa, rocking back and forth with a cushion wedged between his thighs. His gaze is fixed on the television screen, on a true crime documentary that he probably shouldn’t be watching at his age. 

Father wouldn’t allow him to stay up so late, but their parents are hundreds of miles away, cruising the Mediterranean and gambling in Monte Carlo.  They have been left in the care of Mrs Jordan, a local woman who comes in each day to clean and scold, and of Anna, the shy Romania au-pair.

Mycroft and Sherlock ignore them both and do exactly as they please.

The Victorian house with the gothic gables and the stone walled gardens is their playground, their kingdom. Mycroft steals his father’s shotgun and practises shooting rabbits that Sherlock later dissects on the dining room table. He discovers a stack of old porn magazines in the attic and masturbates over them openly, just to embarrass Anna. In fine weather they stay out until all hours, exploring the abandoned tin mine where they find a human skull. Sherlock insists on lugging it home with him.  Halfway back to the house he stops in the dusty lane; unable to wait any longer and unwilling to put his skull down Sherlock calmly pees in his shorts.

Mrs Jordan is far from calm when she sees the results, but her punishments are meaningless, her threats empty air. Nevertheless, Mycroft’s always glad when it’s time for her to go home and silence replaces her tirade of complaints and ignorant opinions.  Now darkness is finally closing in around the mullion windows and this is the time of day Mycroft likes best. The gardens are all shadows and silhouettes and they’re alone, just him and Sherlock. And the au- pair of course, but Anna’s insignificant, a nothing, a nobody.  Nevertheless, a promise is a promise, even when it’s only made to get what one wants. 

Mycroft’s gaze flicks past Sherlock to the TV screen which is showing a grainy black and white photograph of a mutilated female corpse. The voice over tells him that she was one of Jack the Ripper’s victims.  Sherlock’s watching intently. He’s also jiggling about and gnawing at his lower lip.

Mycroft fulfils his side of the bargain. “Go to the toilet, Sherlock.”

“I don’t want to go.”

It’s the answer that Mycroft expects. The one that Sherlock always gives, even when he simply can’t keep still. Their parents, Mrs Jordan and Anna all think that Sherlock’s lying when he insists that he doesn’t want to go. Only Mycroft understands that it’s a matter of semantics, that Sherlock means exactly what he says, that he doesn’t _want_ to empty his bursting bladder. He wants to wait and attempts to coerce or bribe him into going result in the most spectacular tantrums.  

Mycroft smiles, remembering how Sherlock reduced Anna to tears earlier in the evening, stubbornly refusing to pee even after she dragged him kicking and screaming into the toilet. He watches Sherlock squeezing his legs together around the cushion. Whether he wants to go or not, it’s obvious that he desperately _needs_ to pee.

“You’ll wet yourself if you don’t go soon.”

“I won’t!”

“Yes, you will. You can’t hold it in forever.” 

“I know that, stupid.” Sherlock tears his gaze away from the TV just long enough to glare at Mycroft.  “When this finishes I’m going to do an enormous pee on the kitchen...oh….” Sherlock bites his lip and freezes in mid wriggle. He shoves his hand into his pyjama bottoms and clutches himself tightly. A second later he gives a tiny sigh and resumes his rocking.

It’s too dark to see, too dark to tell by the flickering light of the screen, but Mycroft can’t contain his curiosity. “Did you just go a little bit?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, it tried to come out, but I wouldn’t let it.”

Mycroft wonders how much longer Sherlock can stop it coming out and whether he’ll make to the end of his documentary without soaking himself.  He looks at the grandfather clock in the corner. It’s twenty-five to eleven. “Does this programme finish at eleven?”

“Yes.” Sherlock grabs the cushion and jams it up against his groin. “Go away, Mycroft. I’m trying to watch this.”

Mycroft’s tempted to ignore him, to wait and see whether Sherlock manages to stay dry until eleven o’clock but the open door across the hallway is also a temptation.  Perhaps he can persuade Sherlock to join him there and then he can have the best of both worlds.  “Do you want to see Anna?”

“No, I don’t.” Sherlock says firmly. He squirms around with his hand still in his pyjamas and an expression of rapt interest on his young face as he listens to a graphic description of the injuries inflicted on Mary Kelly.  

Mycroft lingers for a couple of minutes, but Sherlock doesn’t even look up when he finally leaves the room.

*

“Show me.” Mycroft’s already asked her twice. He doesn’t want to have to ask again.

Anna wipes her eyes with a soggy Kleenex. “You have told him that he must go to the lavatory?”

“Didn’t I just say that I had?” Mycroft replies. He shifts position slightly and the old fashioned bedsprings creak.

“But he did not go.”

She’s frightened, eyes wide like those of a doe in the split second before he pulls the trigger, but she’s also clinging to the hope that Sherlock’s noncompliance will earn her a reprieve.

It won’t.

“He might or he might not, almost certainly not, but you never said that I had to make him go to the toilet only that I had to tell him to.” Mycroft smiles triumphantly. “That’s exactly what I did, just as we agreed, so show me.”

Fresh tears spring to her eyes. He’s tired of her constant crying.  “I can’t,” she says, blushing scarlet. “It’s wrong, shameful, you’re only a boy and your mother she would be so angry.”

Mycroft bends over her, so that his face is just a couple of inches from hers. “She’ll be bloody furious if she finds out that you let Sherlock wet himself again and she will find out if you don’t keep your side of our bargain.”

“It is not my fault that he will not do as I say. Mrs Jordan thinks that he is crazy in the head, but I think that he is just a bad boy and you…you are bad too.”

Mycroft is unimpressed by her feeble defiance. She’s so pathetic and weak that he’s supposes he ought to feel sorry for her, but he doesn’t. Once Mrs Jordan goes home at teatime Anna is solely responsible for them, but she’s no match for the Holmes brothers. 

Mycroft strokes her cheek with the back of his knuckles, a gesture he once saw in a film about a psychopathic killer. “Show me or I’ll tell my mother that you invited me into your bedroom, that you touched my penis and asked me to put it inside you. If you’re fortunate she’ll just throw you out without even the plane fare home and if you’re unfortunate she’ll call the police and have you arrested.”

He watches her crumble and he despises her. Anna reaches reluctantly for the hem of her pink nightie. She eighteen and she claims to be a virgin, but Mycroft has already told her that he only wants to look. With her face turned to the wall Anna pulls her nightdress up to her hips.

Mycroft looks. He stares at the tangle of dark brown hair that covers her mound and disappears into the valley between her closed thighs. His gaze lingers on the little pink slit he can see peeping out from under her pubic hair. He has only ever seen this in pictures before now.

“Open your legs,” he commands.

She sobs and does so.

There’s more to see. It fascinates him at first, but he quickly grows bored staring at something which is no more animated than the photographs in those old pornographic magazines.

Mycroft isn’t sure that he wants to touch it, but he can’t help wondering what it feels like, so he repeats the gesture he used on her face and presses the back of his knuckles against her vagina.

Anna jerks away from him. “You said you would look, only look!”

“I’ve looked. Now shut up or I’ll tell my mother that you wanted me to do this. Perhaps I’ll even tell her that you interfered with Sherlock.”

She flops back on the bed and hides her face in the pillow, but she doesn’t resist him anymore. He rubs his knuckles over tissue that is both softer and drier than he imagined it to be. Then he turns his hand around and parts her flesh so that he can see her opening, the place where he could put his half-hard cock if he wanted to. Mycroft doesn’t want to and for all his cleverness it never occurs to him to wonder why he isn’t more excited by her splayed open vagina. In fact he’s getting bored again when he feels something, a fleeting quiver under his fingers. It only lasts for a broken second and for a moment he thinks that he imagined it, but when he rubs her experimentally the effect is reproduced and magnified.

“Please stop,” Anna whispers.

When he looks up her eyes are closed and she is biting her lower lip, just as Sherlock does when he really, really needs to pee. He realises that the tissue under his hand feels much wetter than it did a few minutes previously. Mycroft has only the vaguest notion of how to proceed, so he tries everything, judging cause and effect as he experiments on her. She tenses when he shoves his middle finger into her tight, sticky opening, but when he starts rolling her inner lips between his thumb and forefinger she makes a tiny noise.  Her whimpers remind him of the noises that Sherlock makes when he’s about to wet himself. Mycroft strokes himself through his trousers. He’s very aroused now.

And Anna isn’t biting her lip anymore. She’s breathing hard through her open mouth. Anna raises her hips and spreads her legs even wider.  Her vagina is very slick and very open. It spasms when Mycroft’s thumb accidently grazes over her clitoris, so he repeats the motion and she cries out sharply.  He understands that she’s about to come. That she’s completely forgotten that this wrong and that she doesn’t even like him.

This is power. This is the aphrodisiac.

Anna moans and pushes up against his fingers.

Mycroft pulls his hand away.

It seems to take her a few seconds to realise that the simulation’s stopped. Then she curls up into a tight ball with her nightie still up around her waist and buries her head in her arms. After a moment she starts to cry again.

*

Sherlock isn’t wriggling about anymore and there’s a strong tang of urine in the air.

“Shut up,” he snaps before Mycroft can open his mouth.

Under different circumstances Mycroft might take great delight in saying ‘I told you so’.  He had done so before and Sherlock’s spirited retorts had led to a razor sharp exchange of insults. Tonight is different, tonight he is intoxicated by a new-found power and he has no desire to tease.

Not even before he sees how dangerously quiet and still Sherlock is.

Mycroft puts on a table lamp, adding to the illumination from the TV, where a trailer for a promenade concert fills the room with a resounding snippet of Wagner. 

Sherlock’s pyjamas, the cushion and the sofa are all very wet. The two broken halves of the remote control lie at the base of the wall.  One of the batteries has rolled into a puddle of pee on the hardwood floor. Anna is going to have some cleaning up to do in the morning, but what else are servants for?

Mycroft looks at his brother’s tight, angry face. This isn’t like Sherlock. The relief of finally peeing after so many hours of desperation usually makes him softer and more pliant than he is at any other time. It is then and only then that he wants Mycroft to cuddle him and to tuck him into bed.  An uneasy sense of disappointment mars Mycroft’s triumph with Anna.

“What happened?” he asks, really meaning when, since what is obvious to someone with the IQ of a worm.

Sherlock shrugs.

Mycroft sits down in a leather armchair and waits.

Sherlock gives him a quick, sullen glare.

The French grandfather clock chimes the quarter hour.

“It was almost finished,” says Sherlock angrily. “Another five minutes and the stupid programme would have been over, but I just couldn’t stop it coming out before the end.”

So that’s it. Mycroft understands immediately.  Most of their rivalry stems from the fact that they both hate to be beaten at anything.  Second place is never good enough and being defeated so close to his goal would be a bitter pill for Sherlock to swallow.

“You know that happens when you’ve been holding it for a long time.” Mycroft is more patient with Sherlock than he would ever be with anyone else.

Sherlock shrugs again, sulky is giving way to plain miserable.  “I only wanted it to stay in for another five minutes.”

Mycroft decides that the best way to placate his little brother is to set him another challenge. “Is that programme on again next week?”

A spark of interest shows on Sherlock’s face. “Yes, it’s about Reginald Christie and the Rillington Place murders.”

“Well, just make your mind up that you’re not going to pee until it finishes.” Mycroft knows that their parents would be furious if they knew that he was encouraging Sherlock to play his hold-it games. 

Sherlock glances doubtfully at the TV. He’s only young and his confidence has taken a knock. “Will you watch it with me?”

“I might if I’ve nothing better to do.” Mycroft tries to make it sound like a chore, a grudging concession, but he would rather watch Sherlock struggle than torment Anna.  He has lost interest in her already, but Sherlock fascinates him.

Mycroft is too much the genius not to understand that this is not how it should be.  The boys at school would revile him if they knew how obsessed he is with his younger brother. They don’t know. They’ll never know, not even Sherlock entirely understands what goes on inside Mycroft’s head.

“Good.” Sherlock gets off the sofa and pads over to Mycroft. “You can help me hold it.”

“All right.” Mycroft’s throat has gone very dry.  “You stink.”  He sits back and lets Sherlock clamber into his lap.  Mycroft puts his arms around his brother. “Do you want to know about Anna?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Don’t care.” He yawns and burrows into Mycroft. “It felt nice when it came out, all tingly and hot.”  Sherlock slips his hand inside Mycroft’s shirt. “I’m glad you’re my brother.”

Mycroft kisses his forehead. “I’m glad too.”

He stays awake long after Sherlock drifts off to sleep in his arms.  Something stirs within Mycroft, some hesitant, half-knowledge of his own nature.  He shifts slightly, easing the ache in his arm. Sherlock mumbles something indistinct and cuddles down against his chest.  This is how they could always be if there were no Anna, no parents and no school to snatch him away for half the year.  Marooned on their gothic island, always together and doing exactly as they wish.

However fervently he might wish for such a life Mycroft understands the nature of reality. There are rules, structures, codes of behaviour that one has to conform to; it is necessary to play the game. If you batter yourself against the walls of convention as Sherlock does you get nowhere. Play the game. Control the game and you can get away with just about anything.

Anything at all.

Mycroft lowers his head and kisses Sherlock’s soft cheek.

 


End file.
